


A Letter

by burninglikeabridge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:58:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1482088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burninglikeabridge/pseuds/burninglikeabridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has only written one letter in his entire life. And the recipient has never read it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Letter

**Author's Note:**

> A little collection of Johnlock bits from Sherlock's point of view.

We once laid in bed for a year.   
Not an accurately counted year, not 365 days and nights.   
So to rephrase, we did not lay in bed for a year's time.  
It felt like we did, maybe. The days blurred together and we lived in a strange limbo, the spaces of time spent lazily kissing and drinking lukewarm tea.   
Lukewarm, because it always cooled off too much by the time I stopped kissing him, by the time I drank any of the tea at all.   
Kissing; the strangest thing. Really, what was the purpose? Was there one? Certainly the purpose derived from something sexual. Trivial and useless all the same.   
But the purpose?   
Back in those days, I didn't think much of it.   
I thought of everything. Every detail, every word, every action. But the kisses? I didn't second guess the sincerity. Perhaps I should have. Was that an ordinary relationship? I don't think either of us knew.   
We laid in bed.   
It was where we felt safe, in control. Some might've said happy. Happiness was a sentiment I could not afford.  
Yet I'd come to experience several sentiments due to John Watson.   
I had become a lover not only to John, but to sentiment and weakness itself.  
In the dark of the night, left open and vulnerable, that weakness preyed on me.   
I could never let myself forget how to function.  
No matter how easy it was with him, I could never let go.   
I could not allow my intellect to slip through my fingers.   
I never spoke of it with him.   
He must've known, must've seen how weak I was becoming, how possessed by sentiment I was.   
Was it a relationship?   
No one had ever asked me.   
John had never told me.  
Relationships were useless.   
Attatchments caused even the brightest and best of men to cower and fail, to collapse for what they called love.   
I didn't believe in it.   
I didn't believe in myself and I didn't believe in John.   
But the tea was always cold by the time I drank it. I drank it anyways.   
I didn't understand the purpose of kisses, but I kissed back.   
We laid in bed for a year.   
What a time it was. 

 

People often regret time spent.  
I do not feel the need for regret.  
It is pointless and ceases to fill the void of losses.   
It causes only continued grief.   
It causes more pain than loss or trouble itself.   
I do not regret any of it.   
My only regret was never telling John the truth. 

 

'Sherlock Holmes, you are the most stubborn, arrogant...'   
John went on.   
I had stopped listening.   
It was not important.   
No, the words rarely were.   
I recognized the tone of his voice and the slight shifting and pacing of his feet. Anger, frustration.   
I watched him instead.  
His eyes were bright when he was angry. His hair was in disarry.   
Anyone else might've found him beautiful in that moment.   
I wished that I could.   
Maybe I did, in my own, detatched way.   
I kissed his mouth, I touched his skin, I held him close to me as if he was dear to me.   
But I did not see John Watson for all the beauty that he was.   
I found him to be captivating at best.   
I tried to find attatchment in the physical John. My mind found solace and interest in his small flaws and quirks instead.   
He had a freckle on the back of his left hand, just off the center. I stared at it.   
John was talking. I was watching.   
This could be the last time I saw him for a good amount of time.   
He could walk out on me now. This could be it, couldn't it?   
There was a faint, hollow ache in the center of my chest that I didn't recognize.  
I ignored it.   
Insignificant.   
'I'm going.' John announced.  
Ah.   
Normally I would turn away, roll my eyes at his drama.   
He would leave.   
I didn't want that.   
He moved towards the door, and I didn't move. He looked back at me. He wanted me to say something. He needed me to speak. He was asking for reassurement but he was not going to get it.   
He shook his head.   
I wanted him to stay.   
But I could not find John Watson to be beautiful, and I could not tell him not to go.   
He went. 

 

When I first met John, I saw him as a man of friendly if slightly uncomfortable disposition, with kind, sad eyes and the burden of war and sorrow on his shoulders.  
I was not wrong.   
Still, there was so much that I did not see when I first met him.   
I didn't know the way his shoulders felt underneath my palms. I didn't know the sound he made when he tilted his head back. I didn't know the way his featherlight lips felt in the morning. I didn't know what his voice sounded like before just he fell asleep.   
I learned all of that.  
John was the first person in a very long time to teach me anything.   
I should've found that in itself to be beautiful, if I could not bring myself to see John the same way. 

 

I changed with time.  
The more time I spent with him, the less I spent with myself.  
I became someone new.  
I had no identity and I did not seek one out.  
I had no need for distinction anymore; where he ended and I began, it didn't matter.   
What were the differences between us? Would they break us?   
I didn't want to know. 

 

He told me that he loved me.   
I remembered the day distinctly; around nine, just dark enough outside, a bit windy.   
I stood by the window.  
I had my violin but I did not play.  
John was stirring something in a cup. Tea? It was too late for coffee but John never seemed to care.   
My back was facing him partially.   
'I love you, you know.' His voice didn't shake, and he wasn't quiet.   
It was conversational, as if it were a fact he was restating.   
Maybe it was.   
He looked at me, but was not expectant of anything. He did not wish for the same thing from me. John was intelligent; he knew that even if the sentiment were true, a spoken sentiment such as that was too much to ask from me.   
I did not want him to believe that, even if it was true. I did not want John to think me cold and unfeeling towards him.   
For a long while I did not reply.   
He needed me to respond with the same feelings, but I could not give that to him.   
I would not lie to John Watson.   
Instead of speaking, I shifted my violin and began to play.   
John's favorite song; he hummed along.   
We didn't speak for a day.   
The silence choked me. 

 

The phrase: love is patient, love is kind.   
It is a blatant lie.  
Love is never patient. No, real love is not hesitant or uncertain, and it does not wait until better times.  
Real love crashes on you like a wave, and it does not care if you drown or swim, or if you care much for water at all.  
Real love is a tidal wave that can destroy and kill.   
There is nothing patient in it.  
Real love is not kind.  
It is cruel and unfair, it is bitter and terrifying.   
It tears you to shreds. It ruins you.   
You will never feel content without it again, all the same.   
Real love is pain. 

 

He once kissed me at the supermarket.  
I didn't see the appeal in pressing his mouth to mine in the bread aisle, where a little girl was skipping past to find her parents, where an elderly woman picked from an assortment of foods.   
I didn't understand why he dropped the cans in his hands and turned to me, placing his palm on my jaw.  
I felt his lips brush mine, featherlight; John's kisses were cold and soft.   
I sighed and leaned into him.   
That was what I was meant to do, of course; it was expected of me to respond as a lover should.   
I could not see why John had chosen me. I was not much of a lover; I could kiss him, touch him. But I was not entirely certain that I could love him the way he wanted me to. I couldn't comprehend why of all the people- warm, pretty people with straight teeth and neat hair, or shy, soft spoken people with messy habits and quirks- he had chosen me instead.   
I was not like the others he'd dated before me.   
John kissed me standing there amidst shelves of groceries, and I was confused.   
I didn't understand, but I didn't pull away. 

 

Sex was never significant.   
Let me rephrase this more clearly; sex was never significant until John.   
Before, it was a motive of other people, a weakness, a burning human drive. It was responsible for nearly everything, I'd come to realize.  
I functioned solely without it; there was no need, for intimacy of any sexual kind.  
I believed it was a weakness, a weakness I could do well without.   
I still believed that, the morning after I first slept with John, and woke up in his bed.   
I saw no need to change anything, I felt no change.  
I didn't leave the bed, not yet.  
I looked at the sunlight in the window, and then down at John.   
I swallowed.   
I did not find beauty in many things. It was a luxury I could not afford- beauty distracted from facts, and it was dangerous.  
Though I found John to be more than captivating then: eyes closed, golden hair ruffled, expression devoid of all pain.   
I found him intruiging enough to stare at. And so I did, for a long while.   
I found myself reaching out, letting my fingers barely brush the hair that touched his forehead.   
Soft, warm.   
Beautiful? The thought didn't occur to me.   
John woke up then, stretching and opening his eyes.  
'Sherlock.' He said, and the two syllables sounded natural to him, as if we woke up in bed together each morning.   
I snatched my hand away.   
'John.' I said warily, leaning back against the headboard and pulling the sheet around me.   
It didn't matter; his warmth was everywhere, it was with me.   
I wasn't certain exactly how I had crawled into bed with John Watson. My mind was a blur as I tried to sort through the events of the night before.   
'Sherlock, look. If you-' John sounded afraid.   
I sensed the fear in his voice, the slight shaking, the hesitation.   
It was my first instinct to observe, and my second to attempt to console him.   
I did neither. Instead, I folded my arms over my chest and sighed.   
'John, if this is a post-sex discussion, we can skip the formalities.' I didn't turn to him. If I looked at him then, I was afraid I would crack.   
We had not been drunk the previous night. I could not feign a headache to avoid the situation at hand.   
I remembered everything in vivid detail, and my skin hummed at the thought.   
'Sherlock, I-'   
'Ah yes, I'm sensing a post-sex chat after all.' I pretended to be annoyed. That would've been my natural response, so I mimicked myself as best as I could.  
Laying naked in bed with John Watson was causing my thoughts to frost over.   
'Well, yes.' John huffed. 'We have to discuss this.'   
It was more of a demand than a request, and I hummed with approval at his tone.   
It was easy to see how I'd ended up in bed with him, after all.   
Had he commanded me? Had I asked? I suddenly couldn't remember.   
'Do we? It's all trivial, John, because in the simple sense we-'   
'Things are different.' Yes, I knew that it was true, but to hear John admit it, I was taken aback.   
'Yes.' I finally answered. I offerred nothing else.   
'I want them to be.' He told me, and he spoke softly as if it were a secret meant for only us.   
He shifted and laid his head against my shoulder. I didn't move, afraid to disturb him.   
We laid there. At first, I calculated seconds into minutes to keep track, but then I lost myself trying to count the smattering of pale freckles across John's shoulders.   
'Things should be like this.' He told me quietly, and I didn't reply but I agreed. 

 

Nights with John were strange.  
Strange, but not decidedly unpleasant.   
He smiled against my mouth when he kissed me. I kissed him back harder.  
The feeling of my back pressed against the wall and John's warmth became familiar to me.   
As did the feeling of a breathy whisper against my neck, the sound of a moaned request.   
Those times it was easier to pretend that we were a domestic couple, with boring lives. It was easier to give in to John, to all of it.  
It was easier to avoid analyzing, but not entirely possible to avoid observing the details of him altogether.  
I still counted small scars: one minimal scar on his palm from a slight burn, one on his left middle knuckle, possibly from abrasion or a punch of some kind, one on his right knee, where he said he fell when he was much younger, and of course, the shoulder scar.   
I traced it with my fingertips sometimes. He complained that my hands were cold, and they were, shockingly so against his warm skin. He never shied away from my touch, though.   
Never.   
Touching the scar was not an act of sentiment as he may have percieved it; it was purely observational.  
And when I leaned down to kiss him slow, that was observational.  
When I placed my palm against his chest, and when I kissed him again, it was all observational. 

 

Nights with John could be long.  
Agonizingly long, at first.   
Seconds of dull conversation stretched into minutes, into hours. I rarely followed the late night conversations; I drifted through them with nods and agreements until John drifted off to sleep.   
Listening to his nightmares was agony in a pure form. My heart pounded in my chest when I heard him shift in discomfort, and when he woke, full of fear from dreams, I feigned sleep to avoid comforting him.   
Over time, I grew relaxed and adjusted to the sounds of his panicked breathing at 2 a.m, or his hand grasping for mine well past midnight.   
I became accustomed to John's nightmares. He did not, though.  
He still woke with a start, panting and gasping, sometimes crying.   
At first he would turn away from me, claiming illness or headaches.   
The longer we slept together, the more he began to accept the small comforts I offered him.  
I did not say much as he gasped for air and gripped the sheets, in terror of the unknown or worse, the known.  
At first I only offered my hand to him, palm turned up as an offering.  
The very first night, he did not take it.   
He woke up with a gasp, and I woke up almost instantly.   
It was as if I was sharing his dreams; if he awoke with a start, so did I.   
In the dark, I could see his eyes wild with panic, his chest heaving, his body shaking.   
Part of me considered wrapping my arms around him, whispering comforts.  
But I did not know how, so instead I waited.   
He sat on the edge of the bed, shaking, choking on air.   
I held out my hand.   
He turned and looked at my hand, and then at me. He seemed to he confused, so I stretched my arm closer.  
John shifted as if to move from the bed, and I spoke without thinking.   
'Stay.' I said, and the tinge of desperation in my voice made me wince.  
John's face fell, and he was more vulnerable than I'd seen him for a long time; eyes wide and afraid, his mouth slack.   
Words raced through my mind: curious, afraid, tentative.   
None of those seemed to fit- it seemed almost as if John was hopeful. For what, for me?   
His hand inched towards mine, uncertain.  
He must've seen something in my eyes: my own uncertainty, or my detatched stare? Which one was I wearing then?   
I could only stare up at him, openly, at his wide blue eyes and his messy, sleepy hair. If I wore any expression at all, it would have been admiration.   
But John must've seen something in me that didn't satisfy him, because he moved.   
Just as quickly, he snatched his hand away and turned his back.   
I felt the coldness of the gesture as if he'd slapped me. It stung. I said nothing.   
He left the bedroom then, without a single word.   
The manner in which he left me then- coldly and efficiently- was perhaps what I found to be most admirable of all.

 

John Watson was full of admirable traits.  
An ordinary person may have listed things such as his loyalty, bravery, or honesty.   
Yes, John was all of those things. However, he was also much different.   
He was smart, not that I'd willingly admit it often, but he was. He was brave; but not just as a soldier. Also, as a criminal. He was cunning and clever enough to he either.   
His ability to betray others for those he loves, now that was a trait worth noting.   
Worth exploiting, if he were an enemy.  
But John Watson was not the enemy.   
John loved completely and entirely. He would have killed for those he loved. If it meant keeping them safe and well, John would do anything.   
His capacity to forgive was overwhelming.  
And, it's worth mentioning- very significant.   
No matter how many times I stalked off during a case, or dinner, or even when we were just in the flat, John forgave me.  
No matter how many stupid things I said without meaning to, John forgave me.  
No matter how many times I couldn't love him the way he wanted me to- John Watson still offered me endless forgiveness.  
He sometimes joked that it was because I was special.  
That it was only because he loved me so much.   
I liked to think he wasn't entirely joking, but that was a bit close to sentiment, wasn't it?   
It was awfully close. 

 

John was too forgiving. Two years after we started living together, I came to realize that.   
I told him I would not love him, I could not love him.  
We were on the couch, his head against my shoulder.   
He said,   
'I love you, Sherlock Holmes.'   
He kissed my neck and smiled at me. It was not an expectant smile, because John was patient and kind and he would not push for the things he wanted. He would simply wait until I made the choice myself to say what he'd said.   
I wanted to say it to him, because he wanted to hear it.  
But I was not capable of giving John what he needed, so instead I said nothing. I gave him nothing.   
Time and time again, I kept giving John nothing and everything all at once.   
He looked up at me.   
I told him,   
'I can't.'   
'Can't, what?' John frowned.   
I'd never understood the phrase of hearts sinking until then.  
Mine sank, to the depths of my stomach, where it drowned and disintegrated in acid.   
I did not want to disappoint John.   
'I can't love you.' I said, and I watched the disapproval and sadness in his eyes as the hope flickered away, I watched him break, and I did nothing.   
He did not cry, but his eyes were shining when he got up and went to the bedroom, where he shut the door and slept alone.   
I wanted to tell him that I wanted to love him, completely, as thoroughly as he loved me; but that I was not sure I was capable. I wanted to tell him that I memorized every detail of his skin, of his voice, because I was selfish and I wanted him all to myself. I wanted to stop giving up.   
I wanted to be sorry.  
I was sorry.   
I still gave him nothing. 

 

He forgave me two days later.  
I did not want him to.  
I wanted John Watson to walk away from me and never look back. I wanted him to get on a plane, or a train, and go far, far away. I wanted John to be happy, without me, and move on and forget my face and my name. I wanted him to separate himself from the toxicity we had created together.   
Not because I did not love him enough.   
But because I loved him far too much. 

 

'Love isn't measured in meters.'   
John told me this once, during an argument.  
We argued often.  
Stupid things:  
'You left the door unlocked again,'  
'I hate this movie,'   
'We're out of milk again,'   
Or,   
'You always ignore me,'   
'I'm sorry this isn't good enough,'   
I yelled sometimes. I didn't care about the things I yelled. I did not care about movies or milk or grocery shopping. I did not care what other people thought of us.  
But John did, so when John got angry, I pretended to be angry, too. He yelled, I yelled back. I slept on the couch, without a blanket, yet when I woke up I was always covered with one somehow.   
The small, warm gestures. I took them for granted.   
I took him for granted.   
John was too forgiving; so, he forgave.   
I never asked him to, but he always did.   
I never apologized. I never took back my hurtful words. I should have. I never did.   
He would walk out of the bedroom and make breakfast or coffee, and sit next to me and offer plates and cups as peace offerings.   
He heard the apologies that I never bothered to speak.   
I was never able to give him what he needed; love, care.  
Devotion, I could give him.  
I cared for no one but him. I longed for no one but him. I thought of no one but him.  
I never told him that.  
I should have. I should have told him again and again, kissed him between words, repeated it again and again.  
Perhaps that was what he needed, repitition, dedication.   
I could try and give him that.   
I never did.  
Instead, I tried to tell him how hard I had tried: I'd kissed him a hundred times that week, and held his hand thirteen, and we'd had sex three.   
John wasn't impressed with my calculations.  
He should have been. He'd once asked me to try.  
'Just try, Sherlock. Try for me.'   
For him, always. For him, anything.   
I was trying.   
Couldn't he see me trying?  
I didn't leave chemicals or body parts in the kitchen anymore. Trying.  
I didn't ignore him for days at a time. Trying.   
I didn't run off in the middle of the night anymore. I was trying.   
John was so interesting when he was angry.   
I wanted to kiss him two hundred times. Three hundred. I wanted to lose count.  
That didn't take any effort at all.   
I could have told him that. He would have liked it. John liked senseless romance.  
I was not senseless, nor romantic, so I said nothing.   
Our love was not measured in kisses or touches or meters, but instead by the amount of times I pushed him away and the amount of times he stayed. 

 

I felt us growing apart.  
That much was blatant and clear to me from the beginning.  
It was always going to happen.  
John asked me to try, but it was as if we were two gears in a machine that didn't properly fit together or fuction. Together, we were a mess. Together, we hindered and harmed each other.   
John and I were not alike in the right ways.  
We both seeked adventure, pain, adrenaline, fear.  
But John craved affection, love, devotion. John was all of these things and I was none.   
John needed someone to care for him in ways that I could not.  
He told me he loved me.  
He told me he wanted me.   
But more than once we had laid side by side, both awake in the night, and said not a single word to one another.  
Fear? Of what, exactly? Attatchment, or of growing apart?   
Either was bound to happen. Maybe both. What was worse?   
I still counted kisses, but I never told him.  
We had kissed four times one week; close mouthed and courteous, as if we were family members.   
Counting became a burden.   
It pained me to think about.   
John did not want to kiss me because he did not like tragedy, and nothing was more tragic than kissing the one you love whom does not have the capability to admit to feeling the same.   
I never spoke a word of my counting.   
I often listened to John's breathing in the night.   
I took small comforts in his presence.  
The fact of him being a constant force at my side; it was ideal. More than ideal.   
I needed him there. I wanted him there.   
I longed to tell him that, at least.   
I couldn't. 

 

There were many things I should have told John Watson.  
He was wonderful.   
The things he did, and said. His selflessness, his lack of self preservation. His capacity to love anyone but himself.   
His patience.  
He did not surrender the things he wanted easily.   
He was smart.  
All people were stupid, to me. All people were blind and unassuming and careless.   
But John; John was not.   
John was special.   
He was clever.  
I should have told him how clever he was. He even fooled me, sometimes.   
He was interesting.   
The way he looked in the mornings. The way he looked at night. The freckles on his shoulders, the scars on his hands, the color of his hair. Every small movement, every word.   
I was not a man to appreciate beautiful things.   
Perhaps that is why I did not appreciate John Watson the way I should have. Perhaps that is why he left. 

 

Domestic life was tasteless.  
The same person each day and night, the same place, the same routines.  
It was torture, in my mind, and I never wanted a part of it.  
Until John.   
With John, I saw how easy it could be to only need one person in your life, to only need few things and one place to share.   
The idea grew less bland and more colorful.  
We never talked about it.  
We never spoke of our relationship much, or of our future.  
Some days we solved small cases.  
Some days we laid in bed.  
Some days John went to the store and I stayed and laid on the couch and pictured him walking back through the door.   
It was domestic and ordinary, sometimes.  
I wasn't able to function in ordinary, and maybe that was the only reason our life wasn't perfect. 

 

The day that it happened, it was a grocery day.  
We argued right before he went out.  
'We haven't got the money.' John huffed. He slammed his palm against the kitchen table.  
I didn't meet his eyes.  
Money was always a debate.  
We didn't need all that much, but perhaps it was just fuel for arguments in our unhealthy relationship.   
'Yes, I'm aware of our finances.' I replied sharply.  
Too cruel, unneccessary.   
I shouldn't have said it.  
I looked up at John, and he looked angry and hurt.  
'Well, then do something, for a change.' He snapped, curling his hands into fists. He sighed heavily, shakily.   
His hands shook too, just the smallest bit.   
'Sherlock, please just-'   
He broke off, shuddering.   
The way he spoke my name; it gave me chills.  
Part warning and part plea, he broke it into two distinct syllables: Sher-lock.  
He was so angry. So lovely and so angry.   
'Sherlock, please.' I repeated in my mind. I sighed.  
Such perfect things, to me.  
Sometimes the smallest things that John said mattered the most.   
I could not tell him that, though.   
He shook his head to himself.  
'I'll be home in an hour.'   
He didn't bother to grab his coat.   
The words he said before leaving rang inside my head: I'll be home in an hour.  
Home, I thought.  
This is our home. John and I; this is ours. This is broken, this is sad, but this is our home.   
The flat was empty without him.   
I'll be home; I think, over and over. It echoes inside my hollow body.   
I'll be home.   
That was the last time I saw his face.   
When he walked out, it felt like he was leaving me instead of just leaving for the store.   
And, as it turned out, he was. 

 

Two and a half hours.  
That is precisely how long it takes for the news of your lover's death to travel to you.   
A police officer knocks twice, sharply, on your door.   
By this time, you don't even realize how long he's been gone.  
You don't even realize he should've already come home to you.   
You don't even realize what's happened.  
The officer will look sad; he will pity you.   
Your stomach will flip at the sight.   
You will forget all indignities such as not wearing proper clothes.   
You will forget to be rude, you will forget to make a sarcastic remark.   
You will even forget to greet him.   
You will forget everything.  
He will sigh, shaky, and look down.  
You'll feel nervous, for the first time in a long time, because somewere in the back of your mind you know that this doesn't happen unless something is terribly wrong.   
He will take off his hat in respect, and he will ask you:  
'Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?'  
And you will reply, uncertain and confused:  
'Yes, I am.'   
And that's when he will tell you.   
'I regret having to inform you that your flatmate, John Watson, has been in a terrible accident.'   
You won't understand at first.  
You are expecting him to walk around the corner, smiling at you like he always does, talking about how lucky he is to be perfectly okay.  
But the police officer doesn't let you have that, because he can't give that to you. He cannot change things that have happened. He can only inform you of the brutal truth.   
Then the officer will say:   
'He's dead.'   
This is where you will stumble into the door, where you will choke, where your numb, shaky hands fail to grasp the doorframe and you collapse to your knees.   
This is where nothing matters anymore, and never will again. This is where sentiment takes its true toll, where attatchment becomes a death grip.   
This is where you wish you'd died, too. 

 

Things weren't the same.  
I could lay in the bed, drink coffee, even go to the grocery store.  
But nothing was the same.   
John had left me, like I always knew he would.  
But this was not the way I'd thought it would be.  
I had pictured him storming out, or leaving me for a pretty blonde, or for better opportunities.  
Instead, a bus in the street had taken him from me, leaving bits and pieces of my John behind to be scraped from the road like gum.   
I swallowed the thought.   
I had never had a weak stomach.  
But then, I'd never loved the person who became the corpse. 

 

Things lost meaning.  
Did they ever have meaning at all?  
No, no. I never cared for anything but John; it was John that made things important.  
Everything was bright colors and shades and textures at first. I saw everything. I saw it all now, the beauty in the world that I never cared to look for.  
Soon, it faded. I was not one to appreciate beautiful things.   
Everything became grey.   
Grey is the way it belonged, I realized.   
If everything is shades of grey, it makes it much simpler to see the colors, to see the brightness.  
I never saw much brightness, still. 

 

'Car crash.'   
The two syllables rang in my ears.  
No, I wanted to say, to correct him. A crash implies two vehicles. No; this was not a crash. This was a collision, body to automobile.   
There was no crash.   
My brother spoke again into the phone.   
My brother had never had a quiet voice.   
Family dinners were exceptionally terrible, especially with Mycroft faking work phone calls to talk to Lestrade about me.   
'He's not-' There was some sound of shuffling; his coat, maybe.   
I didn't care.   
I pushed the food on my plate with my fork.  
Across from me, my parents pretended not to pity me.  
I kept my eyes down.  
I didn't want anyone to say how sorry they were, or how awful it must've been for me.  
They did not understand. I was not healing, I was not recovering.  
One does not recover from death; it is the ultimate disease, and you will carry it, ironically so, to your grave.   
'-not really alright, really.' Mycroft said.   
His voice normally grated on my nerves, but tonight I didn't feel the usually annoyance. I felt a vague discomfort at the sound of him talking.   
He was just around the corner; I would have at least appreciated him had he had the decency to walk a bit further away.   
Perhaps he meant for me to overhear.   
'It's been nearly a year.' He said into the phone.  
I wanted to stop listening, but my curiosity got the better of me.   
My curiosity always did. Maybe that was my great weakness.  
No, I told myself. You are weak thoroughly. You are not isolated to one trait of weakness. You are broken.   
'He wouldn't,' Mycroft said sharply. 'Not after John.'  
Just the sound of his name was painful. I swallowed.   
'Greg-' More shuffling. 'Sherlock's never-' A pause. 'He's never done this before.'   
Silence. I waited.  
'No. He's never loved. And, Greg- he loved him. He really, deeply loved him.' Mycroft shifted on his feet. 'He still does.'   
I sat perfectly still, wondering if I was really so easy to read.   
With that, Mycroft ended the call.   
Mycroft returned to the table after a brief moment.   
'Business?' My father asked.   
All four of us knew it was just an attempt to be courteous to me. If I'd heard Mycroft, they had, too.   
Mycroft started to agree, but I interrupted by standing.  
'Well, I can't say it's been nice, but I have to be going.' I said, and we all knew it was a lie, but after all, when didn't we lie to each other? Where did I have to be?   
Alone, that was all there was for me.   
I didn't wait for goodbyes.  
I turned and left, grabbing my coat on the way out.  
'He still does,' I heard in my head again.   
Of course, I thought. Of course.   
The cold wind made the tears on my cheeks turn almost as cold and icy as I felt. 

 

I was never close to my family.  
Death did not change that.   
Maybe they wanted me to change, to soften, to open up. Losing John had the opposite effect.   
I shut down, I shut up, and I shut myself away.  
My family didn't call.  
Some things, even death cannot touch. 

 

I did not write letters.  
I did not write them before John-who would I send them to?  
And I did not write them after him- who would I send them to?  
I found the whole activity useless.  
Why write when I could type, or even call, or text?   
Why bother with a pen and paper?  
I didn't see the romantic appeal in handwritten notes that some people saw.  
Still, I kept one small scrap of paper.  
It was sentiment in its worst form, keeping the note, but I could not part with it.   
In John's scratchy, scrawling writing, on a torn strip of crumpled paper: SH~Gone to the store, home soon.   
I sighed and smoothed the paper out in between my hands.  
The way he wrote my initials, the tone of the words.   
John.   
All of it captured him so well; I could almost hear him saying the words to me.  
Even after a year, John was crystal clear in my mind.  
I didn't remember the day he'd left the note. It couldn't have been the last day; we'd argued, he's stormed out without time to leave a note.   
It was from earlier days, sweeter days.   
I smiled.   
'Home soon,' I mumbled to myself.  
Soon, John, I thought. You didn't come home soon.  
You did not come at all. 

 

I didn't write letters for a very long time.  
They weren't practical or useful to me.  
I had no need for them.  
I had no friends, no one who would want to hear from me.   
I wrote only one letter, my entire life. A letter without an address or stamps, a letter that no longer had anywhere to go.  
I sat and wrote it for days at a time, recounting small memories and thoughts and words I had choked on time and time again.   
The letter was never finished.   
I liked it that way; good things shouldn't end.   
Good things should go on and on and on. 

 

I did not want to send the letter.  
Even if I could have shipped these papers to him somehow, let his eyes skim over my letters, let him take it all in.   
I wouldn't have sent it to John even if I could have.  
Not because it wasn't true, or because he didn't deserve to know the truth.  
Simply because I choked, as I always did, and failed when it came to emotion.   
Even if John had been living somewhere else, with someone else, living a new life without me.   
I would still have folded the pages of the letter and kept them in my coat pocket.  
I hadn't written for John.   
I was selfish.  
I had written for myself.

 

Scrawling pages of all the things I never said but should have.  
Pages of memories that still invoked a smile and a skip of the heart.  
Pages of pain, of agony, or betrayal and anger at no one but myself.  
A letter full of everything that John Watson and I were and never were, all together in my frantic handwriting.  
The pages fluttered off the bridge, down to the water below.  
The papers sank, one by one, ink smearing and running, papers tearing on rocks.  
Gone. Gone away, just like everything else.  
I sighed.  
This was not a good thing.  
It had to end with this.  
Only good things should go on and on. 

 

I wondered what the letters would have sounded like in his voice.  
John would've laughed at me, at my seriousness and sincerity.  
He would've joked with me.   
He would've told me how silly it was to fear that he'd leave.   
'I'll never leave you,' He would have whispered. He would have kissed me.   
I wondered what the letters would've sounded like in my own voice.  
Even after so much time, I did not speak the words aloud that I should have. 

 

It was a Thursday morning, the second year anniversary of the accident.  
I did not cry.  
I was always in a constant state of continuous mourning.  
I spoke aloud to myself, sitting on the couch.   
'I love you.' I said.   
I said it again, louder.  
No one was listening; it didn't matter anymore.   
'I love you, John.' I said softly to myself. He didn't hear it, because he couldn't. But I heard it; it sounded broken and sad and inadequate. But it was the most I could give.   
It was everything I could give.  
I didn't lay down and surrender to the grief.   
Instead, I sat down in the kitchen, grabbed a pen, and began to write.

 

I wrote down all the words I wanted to say, even after this long, all the things that I still meant as deeply as I had before.  
I did not write with anger or hurt this time.  
I wrote only of brutal honesty.   
I wrote only of love. 

 

A Letter, not addressed to anyone in particular, but only meant for one other person to read. ~ 

Dear John,   
Dear, dear, my dear John.   
Were you mine? Perhaps you were. Maybe you still are.  
Or, perhaps it is not having ownership of another person that is a show of love. Perhaps it is meant to be the opposite.   
Oh, John.  
You were so beautiful.  
You were always beautiful.  
Everything you ever did.   
Every word you spoke, every movement you made.  
God, you were beautiful.   
It hurts, how beautiful you were.   
I was afraid to see it for so long.   
I did not see it. For so long, so, so long; I saw nothing.   
I did not see it and then all at once I did. It was terrifying and horrible, and the worst thing I've ever endured in this life.   
Every moment was like touching a live wire.   
You were horrible.  
You were the worst and best thing to ever happen to me.   
You destroyed me. I was a man of honor, if my honor was a bit rusty and sarcastic, but a man of honor all the same. I was not honest but I did not lie. I was not friendly or kind, but people trusted me.   
People instilling trust; that has to count for something, does it not?   
You took everything away from me.   
I will never trust again.  
What is the point in trust? No one can give me what I want.  
All I want is you, and no one can give me that.   
There is no point in trusting people, going through the motions.  
You've ruined it all for me.   
You were horrible, John.   
This isn't a bitter letter. John, please know this. Please know that I think you are terrible and wonderful and cruel and beautiful for showing me love and then taking it away.   
I would give everything to have you again.   
I love you. I could never say it to you. I could never let you know.   
But it's always been true. Oh, John, I hope you saw it. In my eyes when I looked at you, in the way I kissed you. I'm not good with affection but John, I tried. I tried to show you.   
I love you.   
More than I'd believed to be possible or wise; John Watson, I love you dearly.  
This is stupid, this is sentiment, and I do not care.   
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder, but that is a lie. Distance withers the heart, turns it to stone.  
This time, this distance; it is too much.   
I think about our time together constantly.   
It took much time, but I even grew to find you remarkably beautiful.   
Is that love? Perhaps a definition is not the best fit for this word.   
Perhaps the definition itself has to be defined by individuals.   
This is love, the ache in my chest, the skipping of my heart, the pounding in my head.  
I loved you, and you are gone.  
This is love; the knowledge that you will never come back, the realization that you will not fade from my memories.   
This is love, and it is terrible.   
I miss you.  
It is a human sentiment. It is distasteful and not the slightest bit ideal.  
But so were you, at first.   
You weren't special at first. You meant nothing. I didn't owe you a second glance.  
You weren't important.   
And then suddenly, you were. So, so important that you blinded me and changed me and ruined me.   
You were special.   
You are, still.   
I miss you. I miss you at night, I miss you in the mornings. I miss you at lunch, dinner, and breakfast. I miss you on cases, in taxis, in the grocery store.  
I ache.   
I ache but I do not offer myself closure or comfort.  
That would be too easy.  
I do not deserve easy. You would tell me to be kind to myself, and I would laugh.   
But you're not here, and I don't deserve any kindness, not even from myself.   
You died alone.  
You died never knowing if I loved you back, you died never knowing if everything you gave to me was just a lie.  
You died a brutal death without honesty.  
I was not there.  
I did not hold your hand.  
I did not watch your eyes fade.  
I did not see your life slip away.   
I was not there with you, when I should have been.   
I couldn't even give you that much comfort, when you needed it most; in your dying moments, did you think of me? Did you envision my face? Did you hear my voice?   
Or were you disappointed? Was the last thing you ever thought or felt, wishing that I had been there wirh you? Was your dying wish to have me there?  
Perhaps I give myself too much credit and you, not enough.  
Perhaps I was not the great, important piece to your heart that you were to mine.   
Maybe our love was not all I thought it to be, maybe to you it was a temporary arrangement.  
If that was the case, I hope I never know. I hope I never hear that secondhand from anyone, or find that you've written it down somewhere as I am writing this now.   
I hope that I meant something to you.   
I was a failure, but I cared.   
I was never there when I should have been.  
I wasn't good to you, but you kept me anyways.  
I wrecked the flat, I ruined things, I made conversations awkward, I spilled things. Sometimes I acted as if I didn't care, or I ignored you.   
I even ruined us.   
Still, you never turned away.   
You kept me.  
I owe you so much, John Watson.  
You made me a better man. Am I better? I have the skills and potential to be. But am I? No, I suppose I'm not.   
I suppose I am worse, significantly so, compared to the man I was when I was with you.   
I was nothing and you gave me purpose.  
I owe you everything.   
You were the best of me, John.   
You are dead.   
I apologize for the script of this letter. My hand is unsteady as is my heart.   
John Watson, you are dead, and I am alive, and this turn of events is something I never predicted.   
Now that it has all happened, I can't find the will to do much of anything like we used to. Now that you're not here, I don't see the purpose. I can't see the life anymore, the light. I can't see you.   
You've given me everything. The knowledge to live a better life, the realization to become who I should be.  
Yet I'm wasting it all.   
You'd scold me if you saw me now.   
I sleep often, eat rarely. I do not leave the flat; there's nothing out there for me. It's been a year.  
I've yet to turn to drugs, but I can't say it won't happen. I'm a disappointment.   
You would frown up at me, and I'd kiss it away.   
If you were here, but you're not. You're not here, and you're not frowning but I am, but no one is kissing it away.   
This is the last letter I will write.   
I hope you know that these are all the things you deserved to hear.   
I love you.   
I still love you.   
It's been a whole year, John.   
Remember all the things we did that year? The year after was lazy and careless and wonderful.   
I loved it, every moment. I loved you.   
We once laid in bed for a year. I miss that.   
I miss you. 

 

~SH


End file.
